


The Road to Salvation

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Soulbound [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Episode: s09e17 Mother's Little Helper, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 09, Soulless Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: S9 AU, sequel to Path to Redemption: Now that Cas is once again human, he’s joined Dean and Sam on the hunt for Abaddon. But the Knight of Hell is collecting souls, and a one-of-a-kind angel soul would be the ultimate prize…





	1. Second Time Around

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to my S9 AU The Path to Redemption, and you'll probably want to have read that first before starting this. To recap: Cas is the only angel God made with a soul; he and Gadreel reversed Metatron's spell and re-opened Heaven, also restoring the angels' wings (except for Cas, because he's human again); and Dean never found Cain to take on the Mark.
> 
> Huge thanks to Miyth for brainstorming ideas with me for this fic, and to 29Pieces for being a magnificent beta as always. ^_^
> 
> Disclaimer: None of them are mine. Some lines from 9x17 "Mother's Little Helper" will pop up throughout; they're not mine either.

 

Castiel took another bite of his PB&J sandwich as he sat at the study table in the bunker, scouring through the Men of Letters' books in search of a way to defeat a Knight of Hell. Well, he was supposed to be researching, but he kept finding himself distracted by a myriad of things. One being his sandwich. Peanut butter and grape jelly was his favorite, but Sam had recently convinced him to try peanut butter and banana…and he found he quite liked it. Every time he took a bite and savored the nutty and creamy textures, he lost his place where he was reading.

It was nice to be able to enjoy food again, now that he was human once more. The grace he'd stolen from Malachi's man had burned out when Castiel had sacrificed himself to reopen Heaven and reverse Metatron's spell that had cast the angels out. He wished he knew whether his actions had been enough to earn him forgiveness up there, but it was impossible for him to contact anyone.

Not that it really mattered, because without his grace, Castiel was no longer an angel who belonged in Heaven. And not just that, but he was also the only angel in existence who was created with a _soul_.

He still had trouble comprehending it at times. Yet that ember, nestled deep inside his solar plexus where his grace used to sit and overshadow it, burned with quiet energy now that Castiel knew it was there. It left him in awe, and with a great sense of responsibility. Mankind was his Father's most magnificent creations, and to be counted among them as one with a soul was not only an honor, but humbling as well.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean asked, jolting him out of his thoughts.

He blinked, turning to look at the eldest Winchester sitting across the study table. "Yes, I'm fine."

Dean regarded him doubtfully. "You sure? Because you've been reading that page for the past twenty minutes."

Castiel glanced down in embarrassment. "Oh. Sorry. I suppose I have been distracted."

"If you don't like PB and banana, you can just tell Sam so."

"No," Castiel said hurriedly. "I do like it. I just keep thinking about…well, everything. The past week has been quite overwhelming."

Dean nodded in understanding, though there was a slight tightening of his jaw. It hadn't been easy for him to stand back and watch Castiel perform a dangerous and powerful spell—or watch him temporarily die from it.

"I just wish I knew the state of Heaven," Castiel admitted. Not only in terms of whether he was no longer hated among the angels, but also if there was peace or if the factions were still warring against each other. He dearly hoped for the former. Angels fighting angels needed to stop, and Castiel had done everything he could to accomplish that. He just didn't know if he had been successful or not. And the only angel who could probably tell him was currently hunting down the fugitive Metatron.

Dean shrugged. "No sign of angel wars on earth, so that's a win."

Castiel held back a sigh. He knew Dean had an aversion to most angels and could not care less if they were having a war in Heaven, as long as it didn't affect humans on earth. Still, that was Castiel's family, to a degree, and _he_ cared about them.

Sam came in from the hallway then, bearing his laptop. "Caught wind of a case online," he announced. "A first-grade teacher came home and killed her husband."

Dean leaned back in his chair and took the interruption as an opportunity to stretch his arms. "Well, maybe she snapped. Ankle biters can do that to you."

Castiel frowned. He thought Sam had said first-grade teacher, not snake wrangler.

The younger Winchester set his laptop on the table and shot his brother a scowl. "Dude, she pounded him, into ground chuck."

Dean's brows rose. "So what are you thinking?"

"Best guess—possession."

"Okay," Dean said slowly. "But what about Abaddon? We haven't found diddly squat on taking her out, and she's currently the biggest bad of the bad on scene."

Sam let out a soft exhale of frustration. "I know, but we can't just ignore other cases. And like you said, we haven't found anything yet." He gestured at the stacks of books across the table. "And who knows, maybe we find a demon who can give us some information."

Dean looked doubtful, but he nevertheless shrugged and closed the cover of the book he'd been reading. "Where we headed?"

"Milton, Illinois." Sam turned his laptop screen around so Dean and Castiel could see the headline of the news article he'd found.

Dean rose from his seat. "Alright, pack up and meet in the car in ten."

Castiel felt a flutter of excitement and nervousness ping through him; he was getting another chance to accompany the Winchesters on a hunt. As a human, of course. His last attempt hadn't started out too badly, and Castiel thought he'd handled himself quite well as an FBI agent at the biker bar. But then Dean had told him they couldn't work together (which he understood the reasons for), but it had consequently led to everything falling apart with Castiel getting captured, tortured, and stealing another angel's grace to escape.

_That_ would not be happening this time around, but he still felt some trepidation at the prospect of going out and trying this hunting thing again.

However, with Sam and Dean's assurance that they would teach him, Castiel also felt optimistic about things now. And he was up to the challenge.

* * *

Castiel was fortunate he still had his suit after losing his grace again. He left his trench coat in the car when they arrived at the police station, as he'd never seen Dean or Sam wear overcoats with their FBI suits. Castiel wasn't overly fond of the replacement article anyway, as it was shorter than his original one, the one that belonged to Jimmy Novak. But it was the closest he'd been able to find at the time and he'd had to settle for the substitute, much like he'd settled for the second-hand grace. He didn't want to think that he was _settling_ for being human, though it was quite an adjustment. Still, it was his second foray into the experience, so certainly it had to go better than the last time.

Castiel followed the Winchesters into the station, letting them take the lead. When they produced their badges at the front counter, he hurriedly pulled out his as well, glancing at the front to make sure it wasn't upside down.

"We're here about the Young murder," Sam explained to the deputy behind the counter.

The officer swiveled in his chair. "Hey, Sheriff! The feds are here to see you!"

A balding man with salt-and-pepper hair looked up from a desk in the back of the bull pen. His brows knitted together for a moment, but then he beckoned them in.

"Agents," he greeted. "What's your interest in this case?"

"We think it might be linked to another open investigation," Sam replied smoothly.

Castiel made a note of that response, particularly its vagueness. When he'd arrived at the scene of the biker bar angel massacre, he'd told the officers in charge that he was investigating slayings all over the country—which was true, but the lead detective had questioned how so many cases could possibly be linked. Castiel had floundered a bit before he'd managed to convince the police in charge to let him in.

The sheriff gave Sam a skeptical look, and picked up a file folder off the desk, which he handed to the younger Winchester. "Karen Young hasn't left this town in five years to travel; don't know how you'd think this could be connected to anything elsewhere."

"Still," Dean put in, "we'd like to talk to her."

The sheriff shrugged, and held his arm out for them to head toward a door in the back. Sam opened the file and skimmed it as they followed the sheriff into a hallway.

"It says here in your report that you were the first on the scene?"

"Yes, sir. I found Mrs. Young sitting next to her husband covered in his blood."

"Was her husband abusive?" Dean asked.

Hm, Castiel would have asked whether Mrs. Young had seemed deranged or callous. But he supposed it made sense to investigate whether there was a non-demonic cause for a woman suddenly snapping and killing her husband. If there wasn't a supernatural cause, though, surely divorce would have been a better option?

"Rick?" the sheriff said in surprise. "Oh, no. Not at all. I mean, he could be a stubborn SOB, but can't we all?"

Dean raised his brows and canted his head as though in agreement.

Sam frowned in disapproval. "Anything else, uh, weird that maybe you felt was too odd to include?" He held up the report to indicate what he meant.

The sheriff paused in the middle of the hallway. "Like?"

"Like, did you smell sulfur?"

Ah, that would have been Castiel's next question. Good, he was on the right track.

"Why would I smell sulfur?" the sheriff replied as though that had been an idiotic question. Castiel was familiar with recognizing that tone, as he'd received it often during his initial weeks as a human. …Which meant that was not a good question to ask? But how else were they to glean the information they needed on whether this was a demonic possession case or not? Things were always so much easier when one could be direct. Though, even as an angel, Castiel had experienced humans' irritation and annoyance at that approach.

"Of course," Sam quickly backpedaled. It gave Castiel a little bit of comfort to know the Winchesters sometimes ran into these problems as well. He'd have to pay attention to how they got _out_ of them.

"Uh, thank you," Sam continued. "What about Karen's eyes? You notice anything strange?"

The sheriff started walking again. "Actually, agent, they, uh, pretty much looked like eyes."

Castiel exchanged a look with Dean; this was not turning out all that helpful.

They rounded a corner that led into the cell block, and the sheriff halted abruptly.

"Oh lord," he gasped.

Castiel stared in dismay through the bars of the first cell. A woman was dangling by her neck, her flannel shirt having been turned into a noose. Worse than that, though, was there were scores and scores of scratches along her arms—and it appeared as though she had drawn across the walls in her own blood.

The sheriff shook himself out of his stupor and clicked the talk button on his radio. "I need the coroner called down to the station, right now!" He threw a bewildered look at the Winchesters and Castiel. "Holy…I gotta…"

Dean nodded sympathetically. "This is gonna be a shit load of paperwork."

Sam shot his brother another reproving glare.

The sheriff reached up to hold his head. "I'll…I'll be back in a minute." With that, he turned and shuffled back the way they'd come.

Dean took that opportunity to pull his EMF reader from the inside fold of his suit jacket. He ran the device along the outside of the cell, up and down, and to the sides. It didn't show any spike in electromagnetic activity. He tucked it back in his pocket.

"Okay, so not a ghost possession," he said.

Castiel moved close to the bars and leaned in to sniff. "I don't detect any sulfur."

"Well, if it's not a ghost and not a demon, what else is there?" Dean said with a hint of annoyance.

Sam just shrugged, and then straightened as voices and footsteps sounded from the other end of the hall. The sheriff returned with several officials in tow, and the crime scene analysts quickly went to work photographing the cell and Mrs. Young's body. Only once they were done did they cut her down and lay her out on a gurney to be removed.

"I don't get this," the sheriff said, sounding truly distressed. "Karen and Rick were two of the most ordinary people you'd ever meet."

"Did she go anywhere on the day of the murder?" Sam asked.

The sheriff shrugged as he watched the woman's body be carted out. "It was Saturday. Uh…a quick trip to the grocery store. That's about it."

"If there's any surveillance footage of that area, we'd like to take a look," Sam prompted gently.

The sheriff nodded jerkily. "Yeah, sure." He turned and trailed after the coroner.

"What now?" Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Wait for a new lead. Because we've got nothing here." He gestured at the macabre display inside the cell.

It was just like their search for a way to defeat Abaddon—nothing to go on.

"Then what do we do in the meantime?" Castiel brought up.

Again, Dean shrugged. "We gotta eat."

Castiel's stomach rumbled slightly in response. Well, at least consuming food was a satisfying endeavor.

* * *

An imposing figure glided between the shadows of a dark alley, sending several rats skittering under dumpsters. A neon sign for a restaurant fritzed and buzzed. Gadreel stopped, eyes narrowed shrewdly as he sharpened his senses. He waited, like a granite statue guarding admittance to some secret portal. Nothing moved. Still he waited, listening, poised. Flies flitted between him and the garbage rotting in the bins. He felt eyes trained on him.

His quarry thought himself so clever, and though Gadreel had spent millennia imprisoned in Heaven, he was no less the soldier he'd once been—top of the garrison and an adept sentry. It wasn't ineptitude that had let the Serpent into the Garden.

Gadreel canted his head, and in the next instant flapped his wings and flew into the warehouse across the street. He landed on the fourth floor and seized the man standing at the window by the back of his shirt. The guy yelped and flailed, but Gadreel yanked him around and slammed him up against the wall, followed by an angel blade pressed against his throat. The scrawny vessel was a fitting reflection for the angel possessing it.

"Ezra," Gadreel said severely. "You have been avoiding me."

The angel let out a pathetic mewl, grasping futilely at Gadreel's steel-like grip. "Please don't kill me," he whimpered.

Gadreel shoved him harder against the wall. "Then tell me where to find Metatron."

"I don't know!"

Gadreel angled a knowing look at the puny angel. "You were a devout supporter of Metatron, all the way to the end. But your faith was misplaced. Metatron would not spare a second thought to aid you now."

Ezra mustered an ounce of bravery and sneered at him. "You are the _last_ angel I would ever help. It sickens me that you have been allowed back into Heaven."

Gadreel slammed him against the bricks again, hard enough to crack the mortar. "Perhaps I should take you back to Heaven. See how you enjoy being imprisoned for ages."

Ezra's bravado faltered at that, and he squealed like a swine. "No- no, wait. I don't know where Metatron is."

Gadreel had to force himself to take a calming breath. With the Scribe in the wind, he was still a threat to Heaven and everything the angels were trying to rebuild now that they'd returned from their banishment to Earth. But not only that, Gadreel had sworn to find Castiel's grace and restore him who had sacrificed everything to reopen Heaven. He would just have to take Ezra back with him and hope some other methods of persuasion would be effective.

Gadreel spread his wings in order to fly, but Ezra started up that high-pitched squawking again.

"I may not know where Metatron is…but I know where he might go."

Gadreel paused and eyed Ezra mistrustfully. "Where?"

The other angel licked his lips nervously. "Metatron entrusted me with hiding some very valuable items here on Earth, just in case. Sort of like a top-secret crypt. I was the only one who knew about it."

Gadreel lifted his angel blade a fraction, nicking the underside of Ezra's chin and eliciting a yelp. "The _location_."

"B-Blaine, Missouri," Ezra bleated. "The library."

Gadreel eased up on the pressure as he considered this. He did not consider a library to be a very secure place to hide valuables, but Metatron did have an unusual love for the written word.

Ezra cracked a hesitant grin. "So, you'll let me go, yeah?"

Gadreel narrowed his gaze at the much smaller angel. He could not be one hundred percent certain of his veracity, or that Ezra wouldn't attempt to contact Metatron and warn him. But the longer Gadreel tarried to deal with this miscreant, the greater the chance he would miss the Scribe entirely.

Gadreel released his tense hold on Ezra's shirt and took a measured step back. The other angel slumped in relief.

"You will answer for your crimes against Heaven and our brothers eventually," Gadreel warned.

Ezra scoffed. "Like the factions will ever be able to agree on anything long enough to spare me a thought."

"You would be surprised. Leaders have been elected to oversee rebuilding, and the progress has been significant and well received." Gadreel hesitated a beat. "I am sure if you repented and asked forgiveness, you would be welcomed home. For that is the current goal—bringing all angels together under a united Heaven." And if one such as himself could find redemption, then so, too, should any of his brethren be offered the same opportunity.

Ezra's eyes flickered for a moment as though he might be considering it. But then they hardened and his shoulder muscles bunched. "I'll take my chances."

He was gone in a rustle of wingbeats.

Gadreel felt a pang of regret for him, but it was Ezra's decision. And that was not the angel to be concerned about running loose at the moment.

Gadreel turned his internal compass east and took flight to Blaine, Missouri.


	2. Soulless on Parade

Sometimes Sam wondered what was wrong with them that they could go from a grisly scene like that back at the police station, to a diner right afterward and order a hefty serving of food. It wasn't that gruesome deaths didn't horrify them, but he supposed that after years of hunting, they had been somewhat desensitized to it. And of course, Cas had been around much longer than that, and seen who knew how many battlefields.

The ex-angel slid into the booth next to Dean and began poring over the menu items with barely concealed eagerness. Now that he was human again, he'd really taken to trying the various food options he came across. PB&J was still his favorite, though Sam suspected it might have sentimental meaning to him. But Cas had also discovered that he liked burgers (Dean had been so thrilled), and Thai chicken salad (to which Dean had been less thrilled), and that he did not like oatmeal with raisins, or potatoes with the skin, or barbecue wings. Again, Dean had been somewhat disappointed with that last one. He took solace in the fact that Cas didn't only eat "rabbit food" like Sam, which was a _gross_ over-generalization; Sam didn't mind eating the occasional bacon strip. He just didn't slather the pork on everything under the sun.

A waitress came over with a pitcher of water. "You boys know what you want or need a few minutes?" she asked as she filled their glasses.

"We'll need a few minutes, thanks," Sam answered. He knew what he wanted, and Dean usually ordered a burger no matter what, but Cas was engrossed in the menu.

She smiled and headed back to the counter.

"We've eaten at diners before," Dean said to Cas. "It's pretty much the same thing wherever you go."

"But this place has chicken fried steak, which the other venues didn't have," Cas pointed out.

Dean shrugged. "Then order that. It's pretty good."

Cas pursed his mouth as though this was a decision of grave importance. "It's one of the more expensive items."

"So?" Dean took a sip of his water.

"When I was human the first time, I had to be very conscientious about money," Cas explained. "Usually, I could only afford a microwaveable burrito or nachos from the Gas-N-Sip where I worked." His gaze turned reminiscent. "I did decide to splurge once, and went to a restaurant where I ordered a slice of pie. I was curious, given how much you like it. There were many other food items I'd been curious about as well, but I had to resist the temptation." Cas gave himself a small shake. "Anyway, I know you and Sam must be equally meticulous with your own funds."

Sam's gaze had fallen squarely on his menu in front of him, though he wasn't actually perusing it. He hated every time Cas brought up his previous time as a human, because it was a sharp reminder of how much Dean had screwed up—tricking Sam into letting an angel possess him, kicking Cas out so that he was homeless and alone because said angel was afraid to have Cas around. It wasn't even like Cas was trying to be vindictive when he mentioned his earlier experiences; they were always said in such casual, matter-of-fact ways, like he was regaling the Winchesters with a passing anecdote instead of the heartbreaking story it really was.

But Sam had forgiven his brother. They had worked through their issues of perceived abandonment and betrayal and agreed to put it behind them. Cas certainly never held anything against them, either.

So Sam forced himself to look up without a hint of displeasure or resentment, and found that Dean's expression was pinched with enough guilt on his own.

"Order the chicken fried steak," Dean said, voice somewhat rough. "You're right; the next diner might not have it."

"And with access to the Men of Letters' resources," Sam put in, "we're actually pretty well off."

Cas looked hesitant for only a second longer, and then broke into a wide grin. "Alright."

Sam caught the waitress's eye, and she came back to take their orders. Dean got his cheeseburger, as expected, and Sam ordered a chicken quesadilla. Conversation didn't really pick up again after that. Dean busied himself with looking at something on his phone, and Sam pulled out the sheriff's report to go over once more. Cas looked a little fidgety in his seat, not having anything to occupy himself with while they waited. Sam took one of the pages out of the file and handed it over. Cas flashed him such an eager look that it reminded Sam of the last time Cas had played FBI with them…right before everything at the bar blacked out because of Gadreel.

Sam didn't really hold a grudge against the angel anymore. They'd agreed to a tentative partnership when trying to reopen Heaven, and Sam had to come to terms with the fact that Gadreel hadn't truly meant anyone harm; he'd just been misled by Metatron.

That didn't make the memories less painful, though.

The waitress returned with two plates—Cas's and Dean's. "Yours will be ready in just a minute," she said to Sam.

"Order up," the cook called from the window to the kitchen.

"That would be it," the waitress said with a smile, and turned to go grab it.

The bell of the small diner jingled as the door opened and a young teen walked in.

"Be with you in a minute, Bill."

"How's the chicken fried steak?" Dean asked Cas, who was chewing on his first bite thoughtfully.

Sam was suddenly distracted by the kid grabbing a fistful of mashed potatoes off a plate on the bar counter and stuffing them into his mouth in quite the grotesque display that would dampen anyone's appetite. Sam must have made a face, because Dean craned his neck to look behind him.

"Billy, what are you doing?" the waitress exclaimed in horror. "Your mother raise you in a barn?"

"Don't talk to me like that!" he shouted back.

"Hey, take it easy," Sam found himself butting in. "She's working hard."

The waitress furrowed her brow in concern as she walked over to the kid. "What's eating you?"

Billy swept his arm out and knocked a glass off the counter. It shattered on the floor. Sam tensed; this was escalating fast.

"You," the kid snapped. "My mom. Him." Billy gestured at Sam, who bristled. It wasn't like he'd said anything to provoke the kid.

Dean twisted around in the booth. "Buddy, give it a rest."

Billy whipped his glare toward Dean, attempting to stare him down. Dean didn't balk.

The waitress leaned over the counter, trying to get the kid's attention. "Billy? Billy. I'm gonna call your mom, have her come fetch you."

Billy whirled toward her. "No, you're not." Before Sam knew what was happening, the kid had snatched a table knife from the counter and stabbed it down into the waitress's hand, pinning it to the counter. A bloodcurdling scream tore from her throat and Sam launched himself out of his seat and flew at Billy. The kid wrenched the knife out and raised it as though to attack, but Sam swiftly grabbed his wrist and torqued it. The knife fell from useless fingers. Then Sam delivered a sucker punch to the jaw, and Billy went down like a lead brick.

Dean was already darting around the edge of the counter and scooping up a cloth napkin to press to the waitress's hand. She kept screaming and blubbering hysterically. The cook came barreling out of the kitchen, eyes wide with shock.

Dean jabbed a finger at him. "Call 911," he ordered.

Sam looked down at the unconscious kid, and reached into his jacket for his phone so he could call the sheriff directly. He had a sinking hunch that this behavior might be the same as Karen Young's. As Sam made the call, he noticed Cas herding the other diner patrons toward the back, instructing them to stay back, that the FBI had everything under control. Sam felt a flicker of pride at how quickly the ex-angel was learning.

The ambulance and sheriff arrived at the same time, and the sheriff just stared in bewilderment as the waitress was escorted out, a blood soaked napkin wrapped around her hand. Then he came in and gawked at Billy.

"Not another one," he muttered.

"Let me guess," Sam said. "Unusual behavior for this kid?"

The sheriff nodded mutely and ran a hand over his balding head. "Agent, I think you need to come back to the station and see something."

Sam frowned, but nevertheless nodded. "Okay." He waved Dean and Cas over. Unfortunately, there were too many people to check for EMF readings, and Sam didn't smell any sulfur on Billy.

The three of them headed outside and grouped together next to the Impala.

"You smell any sulfur?" Sam asked just to double check.

"Nope," Dean said. "You?"

Sam shook his head. "Sheriff says there's something we should see at the station."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, let's go." But just as he put his hand on the car door, his expression fell with remorse. "Er, sorry about your chicken fried steak, Cas."

"That's all right," Cas replied. "I don't believe it would have made the favorites list."

Sam didn't know whether Cas was telling the truth or trying to alleviate Dean's guilt. Not that it mattered, because they were back on the case with a lead that probably shouldn't wait.

* * *

They drove back to the Milton Sheriff's Department and found the place much more riled up than before. A phone rang every few seconds, and most of the officers were already on the lines, the drone of their combined voices making it nearly impossible to catch a snippet of actual conversation.

"Agents," the sheriff greeted, coming around the counter to meet them.

"What's going on?" Sam asked.

"This way," he replied, leading them once again to the back corridor that led to the cell block.

Sam exchanged a confused look with Dean and Cas, but followed. He'd been expecting to see that kid from the diner, but he had not been expecting to find four other people occupying the jail cells as well. The sheriff stood by with grim patience as Sam walked up and down the aisle, completely flabbergasted by what he saw. Two people were writing on the walls in their own blood, expressions utterly devoid of anything but blithe boredom. Another person was humming to himself in a rather creepy way, and the fourth was banging his head against the cell door as though he didn't even register the pain. Dean paused in front of that one, and the guy stopped long enough to crack a crazed grin at him.

"This is disturbing," Cas remarked.

That was putting it lightly. Sam turned back to the sheriff. "So, tell us what's happening here."

The sheriff shrugged. "I was hoping you'd tell me. You're the ones that mentioned weird."

Yeah, but this was getting beyond weird now; Sam had never seen anything like it.

"Where did they all come from?" Dean asked.

"Oh, they're all locals. Four of the straightest arrows you'd ever meet. Apparently, they've been acting like this for days." He swept his gaze over the cells and shook his head, obviously at a loss.

"Do they share anything in common?" Sam questioned. "Church? School? Uh, book club?"

"Not of my knowledge." The sheriff paused. "Oh, I met the kid's girlfriend. She said he was hitching a ride when a van picked him up, and that's the last she heard of him. Whatever that's worth."

Not much, Sam thought, but it was something to follow up on.

The door at the end of hall opened, letting in a bit of the cacophony from the bullpen. "Sheriff, can you come out for a sec?" a deputy called.

"Excuse me," the sheriff said, and walked away.

Sam took the opportunity to pull a flask of holy water from inside his suit jacket and head back to Billy's cell. He flung the holy water at the kid, but nothing happened. No sizzling or screaming. Billy just glared at him. Sam's jaw tightened.

"What are you, Billy?"

The kid canted his head in a brief moment of thought. "Clear."

Sam frowned. "Of?"

Billy spread his arms and grinned. "Everything."

"Why are you doing this?" Dean demanded.

Billy surged forward to grab the bars. "You think there's a 'why'? No. It's because I want to. And I can."

Sam stared into the kid's eyes, steely disregard and complete lack of empathy reflecting back at him. A cold feeling started working its way down his spine. Sam made a small noise in his throat and jerked his head for Dean and Cas to join him a short distance away from Billy's cell.

"Guys…" he began hesitantly. "I think I might know what this is."

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, they've all lost their fruit loops."

Cas frowned at him. "I don't recall Billy saying anything about looking for breakfast cereal."

Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam jumped in before the sheriff decided to come back.

"No, it's more…basic instinct. It's like the littlest things can set them off." Sam swallowed. "Kind of like me."

"You?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam shifted his weight. "Yeah, uh, soulless me. Remember that?"

Dean let out a small snort. "How could I forget? But you weren't out of control like these people." He gestured at the whack jobs in the cells.

"Well, maybe everyone has a different reaction to losing their soul," Sam suggested. He couldn't think of anything else that might fit what was going on here.

"That is possible," Cas put in. "Every soul is unique, and so a person's reaction to losing it would likely vary."

Dean shook his head, clearly not thrilled with this theory. "So, what? A crossroads demon making deals and taking people's souls?"

Sam pursed his mouth. "No, I don't think so. I mean, it's not as if these people are winning the lotto."

"Plus, when a soul comes due for collection, the person's life is also forfeit," Cas added.

"Okay," Dean said. "Uh, well, that was my best swing."

Yeah, it wasn't like Sam knew how to explain this, either. It seemed they had a bunch of soulless people running around, but no idea _how_ they'd gotten that way.

The door at the end of hall opened again and the sheriff stuck his head in, waving a folder. "Grocery store surveillance pics."

Sam spurred into action, moving forward to take it. "Great, thank you." He immediately flipped the file open and began perusing the photos. Cas crowded next to him to get a look as well, while Dean continued to watch the soulless people warily.

Sam narrowed in on the second frame that showed a van in the parking lot, the words 'St. Bonaventure' on the side. He slid that picture out from the rest and walked back to Billy's cell. "Your girlfriend said you got a ride in a van earlier. Was it like this?" Sam held up the photo.

Billy lolled a lazy look at it, and shrugged. "So what if it is?"

Sam turned back to Cas and Dean. "Looks like we finally have a lead."

Dean nodded decisively. "Let's go."

* * *

Gadreel landed outside the library in Blaine, Missouri. The place was dark, apparently closed for a holiday. He waited a moment before flapping his wings and reappearing just inside the door. Again he paused, poised with senses peeled. Everything was silent. A quick visual sweep of the first floor, which was rather small, revealed it was empty. There was a staircase that headed down to a lower level, and so Gadreel started toward it.

As he descended the steps, he caught the sounds of books thudding on the floor, interspersed with a few grunts and indecipherable mutters. Gadreel tensed as he stealthily crossed the foyer, narrowing in on the source of the noise. He spotted some books haphazardly scattered across the floor at one shelving bracket.

"These riddles don't even make any sense," a familiar, high-pitched whining sounded from somewhere within the stacks.

Gadreel moved forward cautiously, glimpsing a head of curly hair through gaps in the shelves. Metatron was frantically pulling out books and then either shoving them back on the shelf roughly or merely dropping them on the floor.

"All morons," the Scribe continued to grouse. "And those dolts think they can rebuild Heaven, hah!"

Gadreel moved silently. He could sense a faint thrum of grace filling the room, and suspected it was Castiel's. He drew his angel blade, prepared to move in for the capture, but out of nowhere, paralyzing pain struck him in the chest and shot outward to seize up every one of his muscles. He choked on a gasp and slowly fell forward onto his hands and knees. Metatron stepped out from behind the bookshelf, two fingers dripping with blood, a smug moue on his face.

"You didn't really expect me not to have alarms and safe guards set up, did you?" the Scribe said, and then tutted. "Guess strategy isn't really your game, Gadreel." He turned around and began searching the shelves once more.

Gadreel tried to force himself up, but another wave of searing pain stole his breath and nearly crumpled him. His hand muscles had seized around the hilt of his blade, yet he couldn't move his arm enough to wield it. The fire in his nerves was all consuming, and dark spots began speckling his vision.

Metatron hummed to himself as he pulled another volume off the shelf. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "There you are."

Gadreel blinked against his blackening vision, and saw Metatron take a Tablet out of a tome. No, he couldn't allow the Betrayer to win.

"Now to find Castiel's grace," Metatron mused, and moseyed down another aisle.

Gadreel narrowed his focus on the bookshelves, and inch by inch, started crawling his way around the corner. The sigils Metatron had painted on the book spines glowed orange-red with vengeance as they worked their debilitating spell on him. Yet Gadreel managed to heave himself up, grasping at a shelf edge when he began to collapse again. He heard Metatron exclaim,

"Oh! Finally a riddle that's actually clever."

Clutching his angel blade in a white-knuckled grip, Gadreel launched his arm up and stabbed through one of the sigils. The blade pierced the book spine like flesh, and then Gadreel's falling weight dragged it down through the scorching blood, destroying its line.

The pain disappeared instantly, and Gadreel sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. He staggered under the shock, trying to regain his composure before Metatron realized his trap had been disabled. Too late, the Scribe rounded the other end of the aisle further down, eyes widening in disbelief.

Gadreel flapped his wings and flew at the other angel. Metatron threw his arms up to block, and squealed much like Ezra had. He tried to bash Gadreel over the head with the Tablet, but Gadreel swatted the Scribe down effortlessly. Then he lashed out and grabbed a fistful of Metatron's hair, bringing his blade up to the angel's throat.

"Combat is not your game, Metatron," Gadreel said. "Now, where is Castiel's grace?"

"I'd rather die than tell you where Asstiel's grace is," Metatron spat.

Gadreel's fist clenched harder, eliciting another yelp. "I wished for death many times, and was not granted it." He pressed the tip of his blade deeper against the Scribe's neck. "Tell me where Castiel's grace is, or perhaps I will take yours until you are more amenable."

Metatron's eyes widened. "Y-you wouldn't!"

Gadreel angled the weapon into a better position. "Try me."

Metatron's cheeks puffed with rage, yet there was also defeat in his eyes. "The riddle," he ground out, "points to the book _Don Quixote_."

Gadreel frowned. "I do not understand."

Metatron snorted. "Of course you don't."

Gadreel clenched his fist and knocked Metatron's head against the bookshelf. "Take me to this book."

"Argh, fine!" Metatron pouted like the weasel he was, and took a tentative step. Gadreel loosened his hold just a fraction to give the Scribe enough leeway to walk, but not to attempt escape. They shuffled down another book aisle, and finally Metatron reached for a volume from the shelf. The thrumming on the air grew more vibrant.

Metatron flipped the cover up, and inside was a small vial with a tiny amount of pure angelic essence swirling within. Gadreel reverently took it out. So it was true; there was a little of Castiel's grace left over. Not much, and Gadreel didn't know if it was enough to restore Castiel as an angel, but it was worth a try.

He tucked it safely in his jacket, and then readjusted his vice-like hold on the Scribe, causing Metatron to flinch and drop the book. "Now you will answer for your crimes against Heaven."

He spun Metatron around to head back the way they came, pausing to bend down and snatch up the Tablet—the Demon Tablet, as it turned out. Metatron tried to struggle, but Gadreel returned his unyielding blade to the Scribe's throat in clear threat. Metatron stilled his futile attempts.

Then with a flap of his wings, Gadreel set off toward Heaven to see Metatron situated where he belonged. And then he would have the great pleasure of returning Castiel's grace to the angel who had helped save them all.


	3. Complications

 

As the Impala pulled up outside St. Bonaventure's convent, Sam raised his eyebrows. The place was pretty big. Which meant they were gonna have to split up to cover it all before it got too dark.

"Doesn't look like it's still open for business," Dean commented, running an appraising gaze across the overgrown weeds, peeling paint, and clogged gutters.

"Could someone just be using their van?" Cas asked from the backseat.

"Maybe," Sam replied. "But we should look around anyway."

They got out of the car and moved around to the trunk where they armed themselves with weapons. Cas took one of the angel blades, while Sam tucked the demon-killing knife into his waistband. Dean grabbed another angel blade, and then slammed the trunk closed.

"Phones on vibrate," Dean said. "Text if you find anything."

Cas dutifully pulled out his phone to double check its sound setting. Sam did the same. Then they headed for the front door. It wasn't locked, and swung open with an aged squeak. Inside was dim and musty, and aside from the staleness and coating of dust, looked untouched from when it had been a fully functioning convent—gilded paintings of biblical scenes and ornate crosses hung on the walls, the furniture still sat in its proper place.

Sam exchanged a look with Dean, and canted his head toward the hallway on his left, indicating he'd take that way. Dean nodded in acknowledgement, tapped Cas on the shoulder, and silently gestured for the ex-angel to take upstairs. Dean turned toward the hallway on the right.

Sam had investigated hundreds of hauntings before, yet the knowledge that someone or something in this place might have ripped out people's souls filled him with mounting dread as he cautiously made his way along the corridor. He came to a door, which opened into another hallway. Sam's muscles were coiled tight as he crept forward. There was a set of stairs at the end that led down to a basement. He paused at the top and drew his knife, just in case.

The steps creaked no matter how quietly he tried to place his feet. Yet he didn't hear any other sounds, nothing coming from below, though there was a soft aura emanating from the bottom. Jaw tightening, Sam descended the last few steps, and stared in dismay at what he found. The basement was dingy and gray and filled with storage. But on one of the metal shelves were six glass bottles, each one containing an orb of brilliant blue light. Sam sucked in a sharp breath. Were those what he thought they were?

He crossed the basement floor and reached out to touch one of the jars, but an enraged cry had him spinning around just as some guy with black eyes flew at him. The demon grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt, yet before he could toss him through the air, Sam brandished Ruby's knife and plunged it into the demon's chest. Orange light flashed throughout the demon's torso and face as he gargled on a dying gasp.

Sam wrenched the blade out, prepared to reach for his phone next and message Dean and Cas, but then an invisible force slammed into him, and he was thrown backward. He crashed into a pile of boxes, denting several and getting some sharp corners jabbed into his back. Stars burst across his vision, and as he blinked to clear them, none other than a nun stepped into view. Of course, her eyes briefly flicked black, revealing that she was the farthest thing from a saint.

"Well, well, well," she tutted. "Another lost soul looking for salvation."

Sam surged to his feet, but his balance was still off, and he stumbled toward the shelving unit. The demon nun waved her arm, flinging him across the room again.

"Ah, ah, ah, be careful there. Souls are a very precious and fragile thing. Break one of those, and them little buggers fly right back home." She clucked her tongue. "We can't have that, now can we?"

Sam gasped in pain as he tried to push himself up again. His back twinged, and he fell back against the wall. The demon knife lay on the other side of the room. He reached for his phone instead.

The demon nun began to pace idly. "Used to be folks believed in the church. Heck, the way they would come strolling in here, looking for God. It was like fish in a barrel, really." She flicked her wrist, and Sam's phone went flying out of his hand. He gritted his teeth.

"But times change," she continued. "You can blame your perverts for that. Now I'm riding shotgun in some smelly van with a handyman and tricking any half-wit I can lay my hands on. But it's worth it."

Sam rolled into an upright position with a grimace, hoping Dean or Cas heard all this racket. "Because…stealing souls is so noble," he grunted.

"Stealing souls is winning!" she snapped.

Sam frowned. "Winning what?"

She scowled at him. "Hell's crown, nimrod. You think Abaddon is just gonna sit there while those pantywaisted demons refuse to pick a side? And so she made a plan—if you can't convince 'em, make 'em."

Sam sputtered in disbelief and horror. _This was Abaddon?_ "She's turning souls into demons?" Without people willingly consenting to signing their souls over? And leaving the shells to wreak destruction on their innocent friends and family? Oh god, this was worse than anything Sam could have imagined.

The demon nun shrugged. "Mhm-hmm. A demon army, unbeatable, loyal only to her."

"Well, uh…" Sam glanced over her shoulder at the six bottles on the shelf, and scoffed. "At this rate…should only take a couple million years. Have fun with that."

The Sister glowered down at him. "You think I'm the only one doing this? We have factories spread throughout." Her expression smoothed out in a smile. "Worry not, though. Victory is nigh. And we'd like you to be on our team. Recruitment is easy. I just have to rip your soul out of your body."

She moved forward, and Sam immediately started spewing out an exorcism. " _Regna terrae, cantate_ —"

The demon snarled and whipped out a hand, crooking her fingers like a bird's talon. Pressure squeezed Sam's throat, cutting off both the words and his oxygen. He gasped and choked, trying to suck in desperate air as the nun advanced.

She leered at him. "This might pinch a bit."

* * *

Castiel carefully nudged another door open and did a visual sweep of the room. It was yet more dusty furniture that hadn't been disturbed in years. He was beginning to suspect there was nothing upstairs, and considered heading back down to join up with Sam or Dean. Though, it would be more prudent to be thorough…

He pulled his phone out and checked for messages in case he hadn't felt the vibrating notification. But there were none. So either the Winchesters hadn't found anything either…or perhaps they were in trouble. Castiel vacillated on what to do. On the one hand, the Winchesters were very capable hunters; on the other, they had no idea what they were up against. But Castiel had also been tasked with checking the upstairs floor, and he didn't want to let Sam and Dean down. He would just have to speed up his search.

The next two rooms were more of the same, but there was a set of double doors at the end of the hall next to another staircase that led back down to the first floor. Castiel approached and cautiously pushed them open. It looked like a common room, with leather sofas set in a square around a glass coffee table, and ceiling-to-floor bookcases situated around the perimeter. He took a few steps inside and peeked behind some of the furniture. It was empty as well. Now he should find Sam and Dean.

Castiel turned around, and jolted so hard he knocked the back of his legs against the edge of one couch. A tall, red-headed woman stood between him and the door. Red lipstick accentuated plump lips, and she wore a black t-shirt with the words 'The Devil Made Me Do It.' Her eyes were cold and cruel as she looked him up and down.

"And what do we have here?" she said.

Castiel tensed, unsure of what he was facing. He drew his angel blade, yet before he could wield it, the woman rolled her eyes and raised a hand, and Castiel found himself suddenly paralyzed where he stood. He strained against the telekinesis, but as a mortal he was powerless to fight it.

"I saw you working with the Winchesters," the strange woman—probably a demon—said thoughtfully. She took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Castiel gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of strength into lifting his blade. It didn't work.

"Does that make you just another hunter?" she continued to muse aloud. "Or perhaps another Men of Letters."

Men of Letters? Castiel's heart leaped into his throat. _Abaddon_. She was the only demon who knew about the secret society, and that the Winchesters were legacies.

She lifted a hand to caress Castiel's cheek, and he shuddered at the touch. "Do you know where the Men of Letters headquarters is?"

Castiel forced his chin up to give her a defiant glare. Her lips twitched in apparent amusement. She leaned closer.

"I'll just take a look for myself." Then she opened her mouth wide, and Castiel felt a jolt of panic surge through him. No, not that…

A trickle of black smoke crawled up and out of Abaddon's mouth, slithering across the scant inches between them. Castiel tried to clamp his mouth shut, but Abaddon moved her hand to grip his jaw hard, forcing it open just a crack. Castiel couldn't move, still paralyzed by her power. All he could do was watch in terror as that bit of demonic essence glided toward him.

It slid past his lips and down his throat, a vile, slimy thing that made him gag and choke before it penetrated deeper and suffused through his mind, coating it in a glacial numbness. His internal struggles gradually slipped away, replaced with a docile daze. A grey film settled over his eyes.

In the back of his mind, he knew this wasn't a full possession like he'd initially feared, but it was violating enough as Castiel felt Abaddon's conscious begin worming through his memories. He no longer saw her standing in front of him, his vision replaced with hazy images as Abaddon pulled up thoughts to play out as though on a screen. She was searching for the location of the Men of Letters bunker. Castiel tried to resist, tried to shut those memories down, but it didn't work. He was completely helpless, and the Knight of Hell continued to sift through his mind like a sieve.

He felt a shift in her focus then, and a disembodied muffle echoed through his mind.

_"What is this? An angel with a soul?"_

Castiel watched the memories of the past couple weeks flash before his eyes—Death telling him he had a soul, performing the spell to re-open Heaven…dying and being brought back.

Abaddon's essence curled around his and purred. _"Oh, this is too delicious to pass up."_

Then she retreated, withdrawing the mental anesthesia with her. Feeling slowly crept back into Castiel's mind as the grey film over his eyes receded. A viscous coil crawled its way up his throat, and Castiel instantly started hacking violently, desperate to expel the vile corruption. He knew he had to fight, had to warn Sam and Dean…but before he could regain his breath, Abaddon pressed a palm against his chest, and where there was ice before, now searing fire plunged into him. Castiel threw his head back with a scream as blazing light whited out his vision.

* * *

Dean didn't find anything during his sweep of the north wing of the convent, and he was beginning to think that maybe Cas was right, someone had just bought the old van at an auction or something and hadn't bothered to paint over the lettering. Still, the place had a certain creepy vibe to it, just the kind of place monsters or demons would like to hole up in.

As he wound his way back around to the other side of the building, Dean wondered why he hadn't run into Sam yet. He spotted a door hanging open at the end of the hall, and a soft light emanating from below. Dean ventured down the steps.

He hadn't made it halfway before he heard the telltale sounds of someone choking, and a woman's voice saying something in far too calm a manner. Dean whipped out his angel blade and sprinted the rest of the way. He took in the scene in an instant—Sam on his knees and gasping for breath as some nun reached a hand menacingly toward his chest. She barely looked up in surprise at Dean's arrival before he lunged, driving the angel blade through her heart.

The nun threw her head back with a scream as orange lightning flashed throughout her skeleton. Dean yanked the blade out and let the body drop. Demons it was, then.

Sam fell forward, released from the demon's power, and sucked in several ragged gasps of air as he clutched his throat.

"You okay?" Dean asked, offering his brother a hand up.

Sam nodded jerkily, and took his hand. Dean helped pull him to his feet, and then his gaze landed on six bottles on a shelf, glowing with bluish-white light. His brows shot upward.

"Is that…?"

"Souls," Sam said, voice coarse. "Abaddon's behind it. She's stealing souls to make a demon army."

Dean felt like a rock dropped into the pit of his stomach. Shit, really? They needed to find a way to gank that bitch, soon.

"So…what do we…?" Dean gestured at the jars.

Sam stumbled toward them, and then carefully lifted one off the shelf. "The demon said if they get released, they'll go back where they belong."

Dean gave his brother a slightly skeptical look, but waited as Sam twisted the cap off the bottle. The energy inside immediately began to float upward, spiral arms twisting and bending as the soul climbed into the air and then slipped out a crack in the basement window. Sam grabbed the next bottle, and Dean stepped in to help.

"Gonna be a rough wake-up call for those people," Dean said gruffly as he watched the last soul vacate the premises. And for some, they'd still be stuck in jail for crimes they'd committed while being soulless.

Sam's mouth pressed into a tight line. Dean knew his brother understood that all too well.

He was about to say they should go find Cas when the entire building suddenly shook violently. Dean and Sam threw their arms over their heads as dust and plaster sprinkled down on them. It only lasted a split moment, but they exchanged alarmed looks and then bolted for the stairs.

Dean's heart pounded erratically against his rib cage. He shouldn't have let Cas go off on his own. He was only just learning to be human again. He was vulnerable, just like the rest of them. What if that nun hadn't been the only demon in the place?

He and Sam barreled through the convent until they found a staircase leading up to the second floor. They took the steps two at a time. Dean thought he saw a glowing light coming from the first room on their right, so he barged right in, only to pull up short in horror.

Abaddon was here, standing over Cas who was laying on the floor. The Knight of Hell craned her neck to face them, and Dean's blood turned to ice as he registered the glistening crimson coating her fingers. He flicked his gaze down and saw a dark red stain pooling around Cas.

Dean brandished his angel blade, but Abaddon merely flung her arm out, and he felt his feet lift off the floor as he was thrown against the wall. Sam went crashing into the opposite one. By the time Dean had blinked the spots from his vision and stumbled to his feet again, Abaddon was gone. He whipped his gaze to Cas.

"Cas!" Dean ran forward and dropped down next to the ex-angel, who was slowly choking on his own blood as it bubbled up between his lips. Cas's face was chalky white, and his hands were shaking as they clutched his chest, which had several puncture wounds spaced in a distorted circle.

"No, no, no." Dean frantically bunched up the folds of Cas's suit jacket and pressed it to the wounds. Cas let out a gurgled grunt that spewed more scarlet across his lips. "Easy, hey, you're gonna be okay," Dean babbled. "You're gonna be fine."

Sam flung himself down on Cas's other side, eyes wide with horror. "Oh god," he choked, and fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. There was no way an ambulance would make it in time, though.

"Gadreel!" Dean blurted. "We can pray to Gadreel." The angels had their wings, so surely he could get here in time. Except, Dean had always prayed to Zeke, when he'd thought Gadreel was someone else. Shit, did that matter? What if he did it wrong?

"Gadreel," Sam said out loud, taking up the prayer before Dean could get a hold of himself. "We need you. Cas is hurt bad. Please, we're at St. Bonaventure's in Milton, Illinois."

Dean held his breath as he applied more pressure to Cas's chest. He couldn't watch Cas die again.

A flutter of wingbeats responded almost instantly, and Gadreel was standing over them. His eyes widened in alarm, and then he was kneeling down and shoving Dean aside. Dean waited for the angel to wave his hand and heal the wounds, just like he'd done in that reaper's apartment, but instead, Gadreel reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial containing a wisp of bluish-white light. Dean gaped at it.

"Is that…?"

"Castiel's grace," Gadreel replied. He popped the cap off the vial and cupped the back of Cas's head, lifting it a fraction. Then he tipped the vial to Cas's bloodied lips and let the grace flow into his mouth.

Dean had never seen an angel get mojoed up before, but Cas's body started to glow with a golden light, and both Dean and Sam scrambled back a bit as the blazing supernova intensified. Cas's eyes shot open with electric blue, and he surged to his feet. Behind him, shadowed appendages arched across the wall. Dean sucked in a sharp breath; these were nothing like the wings he'd seen when he first met Cas. These were bare bone with a little ragged plumage here and there. A feather detached and fell to the floor.

Dean exchanged a sickened look with his brother. When Cas did the spell to reopen Heaven, it had restored all the angels' wings. But apparently not his… And wasn't that just shitty.

But Cas had his grace back now, and he'd _live_ , which was all Dean cared about in that moment.

The light dimmed, leaving Cas standing in the middle of the room, looking whole and uninjured. Dean let out a breath of relief.

Cas raised his arms to examine himself, then looked to Gadreel. "You found my grace."

Gadreel canted his head in consideration. "There was only a small amount left over after Metatron's spell. I had hoped it was enough…"

Cas glanced down at himself again. "It is."

Dean's shoulders sagged. "So, you're okay?" he checked, because that had been way too close.

Cas slowly turned his head with that birdlike tilt. "I am undamaged."

Dean blinked at the odd tone. "Uh, okay, good."

"What happened here?" Gadreel asked, glancing down at the massive blood stain on the floor.

"We were on a case," Dean answered. "Apparently Abaddon's been setting up little soul-stealing factories. But we shut this one down and released the souls."

Gadreel frowned. "You are speaking of the Knight of Hell?"

"Yeah, don't suppose you know of a way we can take her out."

Gadreel's jaw tightened, so Dean was gonna take that as a 'no.'

"Cas," Sam spoke up, eyes narrowed in concern at the silent angel. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Sam," Cas replied, even as he cocked his head ruminatively. "Though, I'm afraid there was one soul Abaddon managed to escape with." He glanced down at his chest again almost curiously.

Dean felt as though all the oxygen suddenly got sucked out of the room. "Wait, _what_?"

Sam sputtered in equal horror. "Are you saying she took your soul?"

Gadreel shot an alarmed look at Cas as well. "Brother, is this true?"

"It's alright," Cas said. "Now that I have my grace back, I don't even need the soul."

Dean's brows shot upward. " _The_ soul? _Your_ soul, Cas! Of course you need it!"

This couldn't be happening. How could he have let Abaddon get away, _with_ Cas's soul? Dean never should have let Cas wander off on his own. Oh god, was Cas gonna go nuts like the other people had?

Cas canted his head. "No other angels have souls, and they function just fine."

"They're all dicks!" Dean shouted.

Cas straightened his shoulders. "I am proud to now be like my brothers." He gave Gadreel a measured nod, one that looked like mutual gratitude and respect.

Dean shot the other angel a desperate look for help, but Gadreel looked even more taken aback by this development.

"Cas," Sam broke in. "Think about it—Abaddon is going to mutilate those souls to make an army. Can you imagine what she'd do with an _angel's_ soul? We can't just let her keep it!"

"True, the abomination must be stopped," Cas agreed.

"Maybe we can summon Death again," Dean suggested. "He could probably get Cas's soul back from Abaddon."

A muscle in Sam's jaw ticked. "He doesn't really like hearing from us."

"We have to try," Dean pressed.

Gadreel finally cleared his throat. "There is another option. I recently recovered the Demon Tablet when I apprehended Metatron. Surely there must be something in it that can be used to defeat the Knight of Hell."

"Great," Dean exclaimed. "We'll use that too."

Gadreel's expression, however, did not look so enthused. "There is one problem—only Metatron can read the Tablet."

Dean stiffened. Dammit, that meant they'd have to work with that dick. His instincts were screaming at him to say no way in hell, but they didn't have another option for taking out Abaddon. Even if Death was willing to retrieve Cas's soul, she was still out there harvesting others for her army.

"Metatron cannot be trusted," Cas inserted. "Nor should he be allowed outside Heaven's prison."

"I don't like it, either," Dean growled. "But we don't have a choice." He gave Gadreel a clipped nod. "You get the Tablet, and we'll try reaching out to Death."

The angel bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I will rendezvous with you at your bunker."

Gadreel vanished, and Dean turned back to Cas nervously. Soulless Sam had been a nightmare to live with; what was it gonna be like with a soulless Cas?


	4. Angels Are Dicks

 

The drive back to Kansas was fraught with tension and silence. So far, soulless Cas was mostly taciturn and aloof, providing monosyllabic responses to prompts and otherwise simply gazing out the window in the backseat. It was such a stark contrast to how Cas had been lately as a human—inquisitive, eager to learn, and happy to say whatever was on his mind—that Sam was at a complete loss.

Dean seemed on edge and wary, glancing at the newly restored angel in the rearview mirror every few minutes like he was a ticking time bomb. Sam had to remind himself that everyone appeared to react to being soulless differently, and Cas wasn't showing any indications of deranged or homicidal urges. Actually, he was kinda like he'd been way back when they'd first met him—distant, apathetic.

Just like any other angel.

Sam hated himself for having his next thought, but he was kinda glad Cas's wings weren't in good shape right now; at least it meant the angel wouldn't be flitting in and out as he pleased. Sam didn't even want to think about what they'd do if Cas took off.

But Cas made no mention of intending to leave, and they made it to the bunker without incident.

Once inside, Cas immediately made his way to the library and began pulling books off the shelves. Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel as he set their bags on the floor.

"Cas, what are you doing?"

"Looking for a way to defeat Abaddon. We cannot depend on Metatron."

Sam supposed that was a legitimate point, but they'd already been through almost everything the Men of Letters possessed on the Knight. "We've been searching for months with no progress," he pointed out.

"Yes, well, now that I am no longer plagued by fatigue, I can do a more thorough search." Cas pulled a hefty tome from the shelf and cradled it against one arm so he could look inside.

Dean went over and picked up an empty plate that had been left on one of the study tables when they'd packed up for the hunt. "Guess you won't be eating anymore PB&J, either, huh?" Dean asked, tone attempting levity. It fell flat.

"No," Cas replied, not even looking up from the book. "As with rest, I no longer require food."

There wasn't even a trace of longing in his voice as there'd been when Cas had tried eating peanut butter and jelly as an angel. Sam could understand not wanting to eat when everything tasted like molecules, but this Cas sounded like he didn't even care that he'd lost the ability to enjoy food.

Cas rolled one shoulder, furrowed his brow, and shifted again as though in discomfort. Sam flashed back to that moment in the convent when Cas had gotten his grace back, and with it his wings. But broken ones. Jeez, what must that be like? Just because the wings were invisible didn't mean they weren't still…there. Sam may have been glad for the small mercy their non-functionality provided in this already nerve-wracking situation, but he wasn't heartless.

"Cas," he broached carefully. "Do your wings hurt?"

Cas looked up for a brief moment in confusion. "They are…somewhat uncomfortable."

"Anything we can do?"

"No."

"I don't get why your wings are broken at all," Dean put in. "I mean, you didn't crash to earth like the rest of the angels, right?"

"Metatron used up most of my grace in his spell," Cas replied matter-of-factly. Which actually wasn't that different from the way he normally talked about the bad stuff that had happened to him. Sam started to wonder about the reason behind that.

"The small amount remaining was fractured," Cas went on, even as he continued to scan the book in his hands. Maybe as an angel he could actually multi-task like that, or maybe he didn't have much interest in holding a conversation. "And therefore my wings were broken as well," he finished.

Sam grimaced in sympathy. "Are you sure there's nothing we can do to at least help the pain?" Because while Cas may have said "uncomfortable," Sam knew that was just the angel downplaying what he really felt.

"I'm sure," Cas said. "It is an inconvenience that I cannot fly, but the grace is stable, so this state is much better than being an abomination with stolen grace or being human."

"Hey," Dean said, sounding almost hurt. "I thought you were doing okay as a human."

Cas turned a page. "I was not made to be human. Your kind is far too fragile and hapless, and my stint among you was laughable at best, and pathetic overall."

Sam saw his brother's eyes light with indignation.

"Is that how you really see us?" Dean demanded. "As pathetic idiots?"

"Dean," Sam jumped in, keeping his tone level and hoping to infuse the same into the situation. "He doesn't really mean what he's saying."

"I think he does," Dean rejoined sharply, and whirled back to the angel, who was still absorbed in the book. "Don't hold back, Cas. Tell us how you really feel about slumming it with the humans."

Cas finally looked up and angled a paternal look at Dean as though he was nothing more than an errant child throwing a tantrum. "Humans are God's greatest creations and I am proud to be their shepherd," he said, but it sounded recited, like something out of Bible Camp, if Bible Camp hadn't been pro-Apocalypse. "That was what I was made for."

"Cas," Sam said gently, "you were also made to be more than that. God gave you a soul for a reason."

Cas shifted his gaze to Sam, tilting his head slightly in an assessing mien that left Sam feeling insufficient. Then he turned back to his book.

"We can't depend on Metatron," Cas said, and turned another page. "Dean, didn't you mention before that you and Crowley had been hunting for the First Blade and Cain?"

Dean crossed his arms, still looking sour. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "But Crowley kinda fell off the radar before we got any decent leads."

"That's fortunate, as the First Blade can only be wielded by someone with the Mark of Cain, which would be a stain on their soul. You would cease to be the Righteous Man if you took it on." Cas canted his head thoughtfully. "Sam is an option, since he's already somewhat of an abomination."

Though he'd heard the words often enough in the past, from Cas, even, they still stung. Especially now, especially when Cas was his friend, and not just some angel who'd swooped in and started telling them what to do. Sam clenched his fists and looked away, reminding himself how horrible and callous he'd acted when soulless, like when he'd let Dean become a vampire. This wasn't really Cas.

Dean took a menacing step forward. "Okay, you know what—"

Sam intercepted him and grabbed his arm. "Let's summon Death," he said in a low voice.

Dean looked as though he still wanted to chew Cas out, and Cas looked completely disinterested, back to perusing the book. Sam gave his brother a stronger tug, and Dean finally spun away with a scowl and marched out into the hall, heading for the kitchen.

"You're seriously just gonna let that go?" Dean snapped once they'd reached it.

Sam sighed; Cas could probably still hear them. "Dean, come on, it's not really Cas. You _know_ that."

"You sure?" Dean retorted as he began to pace. "Because it actually did kinda sound like him. Back when he had the stick up his ass. And he had a soul then."

Sam shot his brother a patient look. "He'd been trained to act like that, to conform. He didn't know there was another way until he met us."

And wasn't that a heavy revelation. But…Cas had said that the angel Naomi had tried to "fix him" on multiple occasions, not just after he'd met the Winchesters. Cas had always been different. It'd just shown in subtler ways until he learned to embrace free will.

"We'll get him back," Sam assured his brother. "Now, do you want to summon Death to our kitchen, or head outside?"

Dean's face was still pinched with a scowl, but he turned to survey the counters. "We don't have time to make up a buffet."

"I don't think that would be a deal breaker," Sam said…and hoped that was true.

Dean stormed to the pantry and snatched up a box of frosted pop-tarts. "I hope he has a soft spot for processed food." Then he headed out of the kitchen and down to where the Men of Letters stored their spell ingredients. Sam followed, and they gathered up what they needed before heading upstairs and outside. They had no idea whether the bunker's warding would keep Death himself out or not.

After setting everything up, Dean sliced the inside of his arm and said the incantation. The herbs in the bowl popped and sizzled, and Sam and Dean craned their heads in search of the eerie old figure. But he didn't show.

"Did- did we do something wrong?" Sam asked.

A muscle in Dean's jaw ticked. "No. He's not answering."

Sam swallowed. Great. That left Metatron.

* * *

Castiel had gone through three books by the time the Winchesters returned from whatever errand had taken them outside. The faint aroma of smoked herbs and bandage on Dean's forearm suggested they had cast a summoning spell, though apparently with no result, as no newcomer accompanied them downstairs. Castiel had not expected Death to help them, and was continually astounded by the Winchesters' audacity to think that the unfettered entity would. Death trafficked souls that had passed from this earthly plane, not those that had been misplaced.

Speaking of which, Castiel felt oddly…light, now that he no longer possessed a soul. He remembered the crushing weight of guilt, remorse, shame, and despair, but those couldn't touch him anymore. It was refreshing, in a way, and brought a sense of clarity to his previously distracted mind. He was able to fully commit himself to searching through the lore, though it was proving less than useful, as Sam had earlier pointed out.

Perhaps they should refocus their efforts on Cain and the First Blade. It would be regrettable if Sam had to take on the Mark, but Cain had lived for centuries resisting its dark influence, and considering Sam had resisted Lucifer himself when possessed, he stood a good chance of doing the same in this instance.

Castiel was about to bring it up again, but was interrupted by a resounding knock on the front door. Dean hastily left the room to go answer it, and a few moments later, several sets of clomping footsteps made their way back down. Castiel drew his shoulders back as Gadreel roughly guided a handcuffed Metatron into the study area. The Scribe roved his gaze around in interest.

"My, my," he said. "Look at this treasure trove." Metatron glanced at Sam and Dean. "Too bad it's wasted on you two buffoons."

Gadreel lifted his other hand, which held a block of rock. "Here is the Demon Tablet," he said, and set it on the table. Then he shoved Metatron into the chair in front of it.

"Hey, easy!" the Scribe whined.

Castiel moved forward until he loomed over the puny angel. "The only reason you're here is because you may prove useful. But one attempt at trickery will be your last."

"Nice to see you, too, Ass-tiel," Metatron enunciated. "Got your grace back, I see. Not the wings, though, what a shame."

"We need to stop a Knight of Hell who's stealing souls," Dean said sharply. "So what's the Tablet say about how to kill one?"

"Well, it's been a while since I've read that section, so give me a minute." Metatron reached for the Tablet.

"Stalling will also count as trickery," Castiel warned. He lowered his voice with deadly intent. "And I will personally cut out your grace and throw your mortal body into Hell."

Metatron stilled at that, blinking as though uncertain of what he'd just heard. The Winchesters exchanged discomfited glances. Even Gadreel cast an odd look at him.

The Scribe canted his head, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Something's different about you…"

Sam and Dean shifted nervously.

Metatron's brows shot upward. "Oh-ho, isn't _this_ a fascinating twist." He clapped his hands together and chuckled. "So this Knight of Hell got their hands on one particular soul, did they?"

"Focus, Metatron," Sam scowled. "You're here for one thing only."

The angel raised his hands defensively, lips quirking as he picked up the Tablet to read. He kept glancing at Castiel, though, more than the stone. Castiel leveled a steely glare at him in return.

"This is a waste of time," he said. "We should be searching out Cain."

"The Father of Murder?" Gadreel said in disbelief.

"No way are we having Sam take on some curse," Dean rejoined. "And I can't believe you'd even suggest it!"

"There is a greater good at stake," Castiel argued. He didn't understand why Dean couldn't see that, given their history. Sam had jumped into the Pit with Lucifer to save the world, had attempted to close the Gates of Hell by sacrificing himself—and they wouldn't even be in this situation if the younger Winchester hadn't balked at the last minute. But Sam was human and weakness was expected. Castiel was glad to no longer be plagued by it himself.

"Remember when you were touting how every human life is precious and shouldn't be sacrificed?" Dean yelled, anger amping up. He was impossible to reason with in this state.

Castiel huffed. "Sam is a strong individual and would likely be capable of taking on the Mark. It was once Lucifer's, after all, and as Lucifer's vessel, Sam is uniquely equipped to bear it."

"That's not the point!" Fury radiated off Dean in palpable waves. "You're talking about staining Sam's _soul_ with something evil. What the hell is wrong with you!"

"Dean," Sam said in a tone that suggested he was trying to assuage his brother.

"No!" Dean cut him off. "You're not seriously considering this, are you?"

Sam's mouth pressed into a grim line. "No," he said after a moment, and glanced at Castiel. "But I understand where Cas is coming from. Let's just- let's just focus on the Demon Tablet right now, okay?" He cast a questioning glance at everyone, ending on Castiel.

It appeared Castiel was outnumbered, and he knew better than to continue a futile argument with a Winchester. He just hoped it didn't take Abaddon stealing more souls before they reconsidered the option.

"You know, I gotta say," Metatron broke in, grinning widely. "I'm really liking this Castiel without a soul much better than the other one. All take charge and confident, not that gullible stooge you were before."

"Shut up," Dean snarled.

Castiel looked away. He took no heed of Metatron's words, for everything that came out of his mouth was a lie.

"You might not even want your soul back."

"I said shut the hell up!" Dean moved forward as though to strike the Scribe, but Gadreel shifted to block his path, towering over the smaller angel instead.

"Castiel is the most honorable angel I have ever met, full of compassion and mercy, qualities he has because of his soul, and which make him a better angel for it."

Metatron scoffed. "Oh puhleeze. Castiel's bleeding heart has caused him to make a bunch of colossal mistakes. Working with that demon to open Purgatory? Declaring himself God?" Metatron gestured to Castiel. "Tell me you wouldn't even dream of doing those things now."

Castiel bristled. "Of course not." He would never commit such blasphemy. …Hm, perhaps Metatron had a point.

"Cas was up against a wall," Dean interjected. "And he did his best."

Castiel tilted his head in confusion. "That's not what you said before."

Dean grimaced. "I know, but that was then. I get it now, okay? You always tried to do the right thing."

"I tried to be more than what I was," he countered. "A soldier who declared himself king, when I should have been the one following orders." Things had been much simpler when he'd only been a warrior of God in the garrison. There had been a clear right and wrong course of action—as long as Heaven declared it so, it was just.

"If you had stuck to following orders, the Apocalypse would have happened and the world would have been destroyed," Dean said.

Castiel mulled that over. "Yes, but that would have been less than the amount of destruction I have caused since."

"Ain't that the truth," Metatron said with a shake of his head. "The angels wouldn't have been cast out of Heaven, for one thing."

"That was _your_ doing," Gadreel glowered at the Scribe. "And I am sure you would have found a way to cast them all out anyway and declare yourself God. The difference between you and Castiel was he had good intentions." He paused and lifted his chin. "I thought that spell and you were what gave me a chance at redemption, but really it was Castiel." Gadreel turned his head and gave a respectful nod to him before snapping his harsh gaze back to Metatron. "Castiel, the one angel with a soul, represents everything our Father valued—free will, and second chances."

Metatron rolled his eyes. "The guy who left the building eons ago? Yeah, what a role model."

Castiel clenched his fists. He was getting supremely annoyed at how everyone was talking _about_ him when he was standing right there. What were they even arguing about? There was no question of Castiel's failures in the past, good intentions aside. He had done horrible, unforgivable things. Such as breaking Sam's wall.

Castiel frowned as he glanced at the silent Winchester. Sam looked troubled. And here Castiel was suggesting that the young hunter do something equally damaging to his soul, because the ends justified the means. Because Castiel said so.

Well, he would have no more of that. He was a soldier and a soldier followed orders. Heaven wasn't currently giving them… Dean was pretty adamant about not pursuing Cain and the Mark. Alright, then, Castiel would follow Dean's command. It was as good as any at the moment.

The others were still arguing, and Castiel drew his shoulders back. "Enough!"

They all shot him startled looks.

"This conversation is over," Castiel declared. "We must find Abaddon and destroy her. And after we do…I don't want my soul back."

Dean's mouth dropped open in stupefaction. "What? No way! You're not thinking straight."

"Brother," Gadreel sputtered, "that is not logical."

"If you all value free will so much, then you should let me decide," Castiel retorted. This was the one thing he would not take orders on. He noticed Metatron smirking smugly, but ignored it. His decision had nothing to do with the Scribe's words. "I want to be a normal angel so I can belong in Heaven with my brothers and sisters."

Dean blanched. "What about me and Sam?"

Castiel shook his head. "You don't understand; you've never understood."

He spun on his heel and marched out of the room. For all of the clarity the absence of his soul provided, why did he still feel conflicted on some level? It must be Dean's influence, just like when the Winchester had initially challenged Castiel's beliefs way back when. Castiel wondered if his soul had made him vulnerable to that, or if Dean was just that persuasive. Another reason he should return to Heaven when this was resolved. At least there he would know his place and no longer have to be plagued by doubts and questions. Yes, he could truly be at peace at long last.


	5. To Be Ordinary

 

Cas's declaration and subsequent exit had effectively ended the rising argument, leaving both Dean and Gadreel apparently stunned. Metatron was sitting back, looking far more smug than someone in handcuffs should be. Sam jabbed a finger at him.

"Get back to reading the Tablet." Then he headed off after Cas, hoping Dean and Gadreel wouldn't allow Metatron to sidetrack them again. Sam could have stayed and babysat, but Cas needed him a lot more right then.

He found the newly restored angel in the observatory, gazing up through the window panes that framed the large telescope in the center. Sam wondered if Cas could now see the stars just fine without the enhanced lenses. Cas didn't acknowledge his presence, and Sam went to lean against the railing on the side of the telescope base, letting a few moments of silence pass between them before speaking.

"You know, I actually understand what you're going through," Sam started. "When I was soulless, I didn't want my soul back, either."

"I remember," Cas said without glancing away from the heavens. "Your soul had been in the Cage so long that returning it could have killed you."

Sam rolled his shoulder; that was a time he really didn't like thinking about, but knew he needed to, for Cas's sake. "That was part of it. But also…not having a soul leaves you kind of…free, from certain things." Like a moral conscience. And the burden of one's mistakes.

Cas nodded slowly. "Yes. My soul is afflicted with so much guilt and self-loathing. I would rather not have those things."

Sam's heart clenched. He knew Cas struggled with guilt, maybe even some depression, but to hear the angel admit it, and so apathetically because Cas was now detached from those emotions…there was a part of Sam that didn't want Cas to have to be weighted down by such feelings. But…

"Those things are part of what makes us who we are," he said. "I still carry a lot of guilt over the things I've done—the demon blood, freeing Lucifer, even the things I did while soulless that I know weren't really my fault. But it makes me try to be better, and I know that's the same for you, Cas. You always try to do better, and that's what matters."

Cas finally turned to face him. "Yes, but without my flawed soul, I can now actually do the right thing."

"Which is what?"

Cas lifted his chin. "Our mission from the beginning: watch over humanity."

"You can't do that with your soul?" Sam asked. "Don't you think your soul is what made you better able to empathize with humans when no other angel has really been able to? Come on, you know I'm right about that."

Cas looked away, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

"Cas," he pressed. "You were proud of your soul, remember? God made you special."

"He made me an outcast."

Sam wondered how deeply that still stung for his friend. He and Cas had talked about it before, and it seemed like Cas had come to terms with it, but perhaps there would always be that seed of bitterness. After all, it still hurt Sam to be called the 'abomination.'

"You know that if you hadn't had a soul, it wouldn't have been possible to re-open Heaven," Sam pointed out gently. "You having a soul was a good thing."

"And now my not having one is a good thing," Cas rejoined, an edge to his voice. "My soul served its purpose, and now I don't need it." He turned abruptly toward Sam. "I appreciate you respecting my choice to accept the risk when I re-opened Heaven, and I know I can depend on you to respect my choice with this."

Sam bit back the argument that sprung to his lips. Even though he didn't agree with Cas's decision, he knew he couldn't force the issue right now; they couldn't risk chasing Cas off before they rescued his soul from Abaddon. Sam could only hope that Cas would come to _want_ his soul back before then. And if not, they'd have to take some more drastic measures…

"We should get back," Cas said. "If Metatron has not made any progress yet, then we should discuss alternatives." He started to move toward the doorway, but Sam reached out to stop him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Whatever happens, Cas, if you want to go back to Heaven…Dean and I will miss you, but we'll understand." Well, Dean probably wouldn't, but Sam had already realized how important Cas's angelic family still was to him, soul or no. And with his grace back, he could return to Heaven if he wanted to. "Just remember you'll always be part of our family, anytime you want to come back."

Cas canted his head in that birdlike tilt. "Thank you, Sam," he said, but his stoic tone lacked sincerity. As he moved away from the brotherly embrace and swept out into the corridor without looking back, Sam felt his heart fracture.

* * *

Dean looked up as Cas and Sam came back. He hoped his brother had been able to talk some sense into the angel. Not wanting his soul back? Didn't Cas see he was a complete dick without it? And was he seriously planning on going back to Heaven now that he had his grace back? Well, why should Dean be surprised? Cas always did that, even when he had his soul. No matter how close their unit got, no matter how much Cas had become family, it always came back to that—he was an angel and never wanted to stay if he didn't have to.

Cas strode in, face expressionless. Sam, on the other hand, looked crushed. Dean's heart fell. Dammit, Cas was one stubborn pain in the ass, with or without his soul.

Cas marched over to Metatron and loomed over him threateningly. This Cas was actually a little bit scary, not that Dean would admit it out loud.

"What does the Tablet say about defeating a Knight of Hell?" Cas demanded.

Metatron leaned back in his chair, raising his cuffed hands to his chin. "There is a spell that will destroy one."

Dean zeroed in on that. Finally, something they could do. "Great, what is it?"

Metatron wagged one finger. "Ah, ah, ah. I tell you and then what? I go back to Heaven's jail? I don't think so."

Cas gripped the arm rests and jerked the chair, scraping the legs across the floor as he bore down on the smarmy angel. "This is not a negotiation, Metatron."

The Scribe swallowed hard, but nevertheless lifted his chin with a hint of triumph. He had the upper hand and knew it. "I'm the only one who can read the spell. Kill me, and you'll never stop Abaddon."

"You cannot bargain for your freedom, Metatron," Gadreel put in.

Cas straightened. "Perhaps we can use that device to hack his brain."

That finally made the smug Scribe blanch. "You wouldn't dare."

Cas narrowed his eyes and leaned down again. "That's right, you're afraid of someone picking through your mind. That's why you fled Heaven when Naomi wanted to 'debrief' you. I assure you, it's an excruciating process, having someone drill into your brain and dismantle you, piece by piece."

Metatron's throat bobbed, and even Dean was horrified. Not so much because Cas was threatening the dickbag with it, but because Cas had firsthand experience of going through that when Naomi had brainwashed him. If Dean had known at the time…dammit, he _had_ known something was off with Cas; he just hadn't done anything about it. Was it any wonder Cas never really wanted to stick around with people who had abandoned him plenty of times first?

"It's a complicated spell," Metatron bleated. "It would take too long to teach one of you to do it."

Dean gritted his teeth. He didn't like it, but they had no other option, not if they wanted to stop Abaddon sooner rather than later, and fix Cas. Because Dean really didn't want him going around soulless longer than was necessary.

"Cas," he said, "lay off." Dean blinked in surprise when Cas straightened swiftly and took a step back.

Sam made a soft clearing sound in his throat. "So, how are we supposed to find Abaddon so we can cast this spell?"

"There's a summoning spell here as well," Metatron said, voice slightly wobbly despite his attempts to square his shoulders and appear unfazed by Cas's threat.

"Great." Dean nodded, glad they finally had something solid to work with. "Then we just need to set a trap."

"I would suggest somewhere away from the bunker," Cas said. "Abaddon is very interested in discovering its location, and it would be prudent to keep it concealed should something go wrong." He flashed Metatron a dark glare of warning.

"Yeah, sure," Dean agreed.

Cas turned to face him. "Where would you like to set up?"

"Uh…" He glanced at Sam. "That old brewery on the edge of town?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's isolated and abandoned."

"Okay…" Dean looked around at their group. He really didn't want to cram the five of them into the Impala, but he also wasn't keen on flying Angel Air with Gadreel having to carry all of them plus supplies.

"We need any ingredients for this spell?" he asked Metatron.

The Scribe nodded jerkily.

"Okay, make a list." Dean looked at Gadreel. "You okay transporting Metatron while we follow in the car?" Dean internally grimaced; he'd automatically counted Cas as driving with them, though that wasn't gonna be pleasant. At least the place was close.

"Yes," Gadreel said. "I just need coordinates."

"Sure." Dean pulled out his phone to look those up while Sam yanked Metatron out of his chair and dragged him down the hallway to the Men of Letters' stores to gather ingredients. He couldn't help but overhear as Gadreel stepped up to Cas and pulled him aside.

"I am sorry, brother, if my words upset you earlier. I just do not understand why you would not want to reclaim such a crucial piece of yourself."

"You've spent the last several millennia wanting nothing more than a chance to redeem yourself to our brothers and sisters, to be welcomed back to the Host," Cas replied. "Surely you can understand how I would want the same."

Gadreel frowned. "Our brothers and sisters hold no grudge against you, Castiel. Quite the opposite—you are a hero in Heaven for your role in defeating Metatron and restoring everyone's wings."

"For now. Until I make another mistake following my _soul's_ misguided intentions."

Dean couldn't believe how much disgust Cas could pack into that word. But then, hadn't Dean expressed such scorn when he'd berated Cas for his poor decisions in the past? Now Cas had a scapegoat, something to blame and hate with equal derision.

Gadreel's mouth thinned. "If things had happened differently, and you were as you are now, would you have given me a second chance?"

Cas didn't respond for a long moment, eyes crinkled as though in deep thought. When he still didn't say anything, Gadreel nodded sadly and took a step back. "I did not think so. No other angel would. Only you. Surely that must mean something to you, Castiel, because it means everything to me."

Dean had to glance away before they caught him watching. It was killing him to see Cas like this—this _uncaring_ …hammer. God, he'd accused Cas of being that before, way back when. And Cas had hesitantly, almost fearfully, confessed that he wasn't that, that he had doubts. That he was glad the town hadn't been destroyed, despite those being his orders at the time. Cas had cared. He always cared. And Dean had never really seen that before.

Mercifully, Sam returned with Metatron, interrupting the tension so Dean wouldn't have to. Shaking off the weight of his thoughts, Dean turned to Gadreel to give him the coordinates of the brewery. The angel nodded gravely, went to take the Scribe and ingredients from Sam, and picked up the Demon Tablet last. Then he and Metatron were gone in a rush of wingbeats.

Sam quirked a brow at Dean, but he just shook his head and gestured toward the stairs. "Let's go."

They headed up to the garage where the Impala was parked, and Dean watched Cas stiffly slide into the backseat. It was a fifteen-minute drive to the brewery, and yet that short time span had never felt so long. No one said anything. Dean didn't know what to say. There were no arguments he could make that Cas would be open to, and browbeating him probably wouldn't work, either.

By the time they arrived at the old abandoned brewery, Gadreel had painted a Devil's Trap on the floor and Metatron was mixing ingredients in a bowl, his hands still cuffed. Dean had his angel blade, Sam the demon-killing knife, even though they knew those weren't enough against a Knight of Hell. Still, better to be armed with something.

They spread out, Dean and Sam taking up position on one side of the trap, Gadreel and Cas on the opposite. Metatron closed his eyes and began to chant in what sounded like Enochian. Dean tensed. He hoped this worked…

There was a flash of light from the spell bowl, and Dean jerked back instinctively as he suddenly found himself facing the red-headed bitch from Hell. Abaddon whipped her head around sharply, eyes widening with fury as she took in the Devil's Trap. Then a small smirk slowly crept across her face.

"This won't hold me for long," she said, and took a step toward the edge of the line. Dean forced himself to hold his ground.

"That's okay, you won't be here long," he managed to say steadily, angling the angel blade at her. "But first, you took something that doesn't belong to you."

Abaddon craned her neck to glance over her shoulder at Cas. "Hm, look at that, all winged up again," she purred. Cas glowered in response.

"Give his soul back," Dean demanded.

Cas shot him a scathing look. "Dean."

Abaddon turned back toward the Winchesters. "And how do you plan on making me?" She inched closer to the edge, testing the trap's strength. Only a slight flinch on her part suggested it was still holding enough. Dean tightened his grip on his blade.

Cas suddenly moved and strode toward Metatron. "Cast the spell," he ordered sharply.

Dean's brows shot upward. "No, wait—"

Metatron flicked him a smug grin, and then started to recite a different string of phrases in Enochian. The lines of the Devil's Trap began to glow hot orange. Abaddon recoiled toward the center, eyes narrowed with wariness as static crackled on the air. Dean started toward the Scribe in order to stop him, but then the lines of energy on the floor suddenly inverted, and instead of sweeping toward the demon, they lashed backward and out. One caught Dean across the chest and propelled him into the wall where it held fast, pinning him. Sam, Gadreel, and Cas were struck as well, the orange coils slamming them into the perpendicular walls and holding them there.

Dean struggled, but couldn't break free. The sizzling band across his chest didn't burn, but it tingled like thousands of fire ants.

"Argh, Metatron," Cas growled.

"Shoulda read the fine print," the Scribe replied blithely.

He moved around the small table of spell ingredients to approach the edge of the Devil's Trap. Abaddon eyed him guardedly.

"I propose we make a deal," Metatron started. "You break these—" he held up his cuffed wrists, "—I break that." He pointed to the trap.

Abaddon narrowed her gaze. "You are an angel. Why should I expect you to keep your word?"

Metatron grinned widely. "Ah, because I can sweeten the pot. I know where the Men of Letters bunker is. Plus, I really hate these two yahoos." He flashed the Winchesters a contemptuous look.

Dean strained harder against the force binding him, but even though he still had a grip on his weapon, he couldn't move. "I will kill you," he ground out.

Metatron scoffed. "Promises, promises. Even Castiel knows you don't keep them." He turned back to Abaddon. "So, do we have a deal?"

Dean could see his brother struggling as well, along with Cas and Gadreel, but they were all effectively bound.

Abaddon regarded Metatron carefully for a long moment, and then finally took a step forward. "Deal."

Beaming, Metatron lifted his arms and held them out over the edge of the Devil's Trap. Abaddon grabbed the metal cuffs, and with one sharp yank, ripped them off.


	6. A Soul By Any Other Name

 

Castiel watched in mounting fury as Metatron scuffed his shoe over the Devil's Trap, breaking the line. He pushed against the spell restraining him, which only served to increase the resistance pressing against his ribcage until black edges began to creep along his vision.

"You will never regain control of Heaven, Metatron," Castiel growled. "So what do you hope to accomplish here?"

"Good old fashioned revenge." Metatron paused. "And I think Heaven is still on the table." He turned to Abaddon, who towered over his vessel and managed to look far more sinister compared to the puny Scribe. "Now, in exchange for the Men of Letters headquarters, let's talk about that little angelic soul you picked up recently."

Abaddon narrowed her eyes. "Are you trying to trick me?"

Metatron raised his hands placatingly. "Not at all. An angel's soul is powerful, but you don't _need_ it for your army. Whereas I could potentially use it to regain control of Heaven."

"You son-of-a-bitch," Dean snarled from where he dangled against the wall.

Castiel, on the other hand, was stunned speechless. Metatron thought to use his soul to take over Heaven again? Well, that was completely unacceptable.

"Metatron is a liar and master manipulator," Castiel called out to Abaddon.

"Uh, I prefer master strategist," Metatron rejoined, barely glancing Castiel's way. "Think about it," he continued to wheedle the Knight of Hell. "My being in charge upstairs would only be advantageous to you, as I'll make sure all the other angels leave you alone. You can run your little Hell campaign to your heart's content."

Abaddon eyed him shrewdly. "Heaven is currently in shambles and too busy to pay any attention to Hell's dealings," she countered. "And with an angel's soul in my arsenal, I'm not afraid of the cloud hoppers if they ever do decide to rally."

Metatron's jaw dropped open in indignation. "Oh, come on!" He spread his arms in exasperation, then gestured at the Winchesters. "Look, you're even getting two more human souls out of this. _Winchester_ souls. Plus the treasure trove of supernatural lore? That's a pretty fair trade for one soul, even an angel's."

Sam and Dean exchanged horrified looks, and Castiel had to admit that adding the Winchesters' souls to Abaddon's ranks would tip the balance of evil in this world.

Abaddon was silent for a long moment. "Alright," she finally said, and reached inside her leather jacket.

When she pulled out a small glass bottle glistering with a bright sphere of energy, Castiel once again found himself dismayed. The essence wasn't unlike an angel's grace or a regular human soul, except it had prismatic slivers woven throughout. It looked…pure. Which surely couldn't be right; how could something so beautiful belong to Castiel, this thing that made him weak?

Metatron's eyes gleamed with manic desire in the reflection of the soul's aura, sending a wave of disgust through Castiel at the thought of the Scribe touching it.

"Come on, Castiel," Metatron called, glancing his way again. "This way we both get what we want. You don't need to take this wretched soul back, which you know the Winchesters would force you to do, and you don't have to worry about it getting turned into a demon. Win-win. And hey," he exclaimed. "How would you like to stand at my right hand in Heaven? You know that's what you really want, to go back to being a foot soldier. To not carry the burden of leadership."

Castiel gritted his teeth. Yes, that was what he wanted. And on some level he had also known the Winchesters wouldn't accept him not taking his soul back. That didn't mean he would bow at the feet of _Metatron_ , though.

"I'll die first."

Metatron shrugged. "Was worth a shot." He reached out to take the bottle.

An enraged bellow issued from Gadreel then, and he somehow managed to tear himself free of the mystical bonds. Angel blade in hand, he leaped forward with a battle cry. Abaddon jerked back, narrowly dodging the blade. She hissed, baring her teeth as she clutched the bottle in a tight fist. Metatron scrabbled out of the way.

Gadreel slashed again at the Knight, but she ducked under the swing and grabbed Gadreel's arm. She gave it a sharp crank, snapping his elbow. With Castiel's soul still secured in her grip, she delivered one, two, three punches to Gadreel's face.

Castiel fought to lift his arm, his limb shaking with strain, but then he managed to stab his own angel blade through the orange coil strapped across his torso. Energy popped and fizzled, and he dropped to the floor. Abaddon punched Gadreel in the chest and sent him flying through the air until he collided with the narrow stairway.

Castiel lunged at the demon and tackled her to the ground. They tumbled in a tangle, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw the bottle containing his soul go rolling out of her hand. Abaddon let out an animalistic snarl and scored her fingernails across his face. The scratches burned like fire, but he ignored them, and wrenched his arm around to stab the Knight in the shoulder. She screamed.

But while a little bit of orange flickered around the wound, the angel blade alone wasn't enough to cause significant damage. Abaddon thrust her palms against Castiel's chest and shoved him away. He staggered to regain his feet quickly, wracking his brain for some way to defeat her. But he didn't know the spell, and Metatron would never cast it himself.

Castiel saw the Scribe go skittering toward where Castiel's soul had landed, but Gadreel came charging forward and intercepted him. They both went flying to the other side of the room in a mass of flailing limbs, some delivering blows, some blocking them. Castiel turned his attention back to Abaddon, but froze as she whipped a hand out toward the Winchesters, who were still pinned to the wall. Blood began gushing from their eyes.

"Stop!" Castiel commanded.

Abaddon's red lips curved upward. "What are you gonna do, angel?" With another twist of her wrist, Sam and Dean started to scream.

Castiel hesitated. He could not allow this abomination to manipulate him. Abaddon was too dangerous, and must be destroyed at all costs. Castiel knew this to be certain, just like he'd known five years ago that the breaking of the Seals must be stopped at all costs. He had been ordered to destroy an entire town to see it done, and so he knew he should be willing to sacrifice the Winchesters if it meant not allowing Abaddon to escape.

And yet…that town had not ended up being destroyed. Sam and Dean had done everything within their power to save it—and had succeeded. Castiel remembered that he'd felt relieved at that. He also remembered that he cared for the Winchesters, so much that it had dictated his actions for the past several years. Granted, his actions had been despicable and woefully misguided. He took a step forward.

Abaddon's eyes darkened, and a muscle in her cheek ticked. Another horrendous scream ripped from the Winchesters' throats.

Castiel stopped. Wasn't sacrificing the Winchesters precisely what Metatron had tried to do? And with that town, neither Uriel nor Zachariah had had an ounce of compunction about killing everyone in it, despite their innocence. They thought humans were nothing more than disgusting worms. Lucifer had thought the same.

Castiel's throat tightened. How then could he follow his divine mandate of watching over humans when it seemed that all the other angels inevitably fell away from their duty? Was Sam right, was Castiel's soul the reason he had held onto his charge so faithfully? If he stayed as he was, just a regular angel, would he continue to protect humanity? Or would he end up like all those other angels who didn't _love_ enough to protect the world instead of trying to destroy it?

Sam and Dean had saved the world, on more than one occasion, and it was because they cared so much. They had taught Castiel to care. And- and they cared about him, even when— _especially_ when—no one else did. Castiel found himself suddenly wanting that back. That family was real, not the one he thought he'd find in Heaven where his only value was in his usefulness as a soldier, a pawn.

Castiel took two steps back. Smirking, Abaddon eased up on her power. Sam and Dean gasped and flailed where they were pinned, their faces painted in macabre streaks of scarlet. Castiel caught a glimpse of glowing light in the corner. Metatron believed the power of a single angel's soul was enough to retake Heaven; perhaps it was enough to defeat a Knight of Hell.

Castiel stretched out his hand toward it. The bottle began to shake. All he had to do was release the soul, reclaim it, and the power would be his to wield. There would be pain. Tremendous, crushing pain of guilt, disappointment, abandonment, and despair. But there would also be joy. The security of feeling loved—and the ability to feel love in return, which was sometimes enough to warm the heart against the coldest winter. You could not have one without the other, for pain made those moments of joy all the more precious.

Abaddon's eyes narrowed as she began to detect his movement, but it was too late. With a jerk of his hand, Castiel sent the bottle flinging through the air to smash against the wall. The glass shattered on impact, and the glowing orb hovered for a split moment before it swirled toward Castiel. His soul whooshed back into him, drowning him in a deluge of emotions. It was overwhelming, and Castiel was momentarily disoriented.

Abaddon lunged, clawed hand outstretched. She slammed into him, driving him back against the wall. Castiel grunted from the impact. He felt the sharp sting of five fingers trying to dig into his chest. Power prickled up his spine, and though his ears were ringing, Castiel thought he heard one of the Winchesters yelling his name. _Sam_. _Dean_. He had to save them. How could he have ever forgotten?

Castiel wrenched his arm up and rammed his angel blade into Abaddon's chest, piercing the center. She gasped, her entire body juddering in response. Yet it didn't kill her. Clenching her jaw, she lifted her head, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing as she attempted to claw into him and rip his soul right back out.

"Sam, Dean, close your eyes!" Castiel shouted. With his angel blade still skewering the Knight of Hell, Castiel unleashed his grace, and the radiating power of his soul. The heat of a supernova bloomed within his chest, and light blazed forth. Bluish-white with opalescent sparks channeled down through Castiel's arm and into the blade, right into Abaddon. Her eyes blew wide in a moment of shock before she threw her head back and screamed. The sunburst exploded, whiting everything out.

* * *

Sam let out a garbled gasp as the pain in his head and eyes suddenly stopped. He still couldn't see, and his cheeks felt wet and hot. There was a cold hard surface beneath him, and Sam realized he was no longer pinned to the wall. He tentatively raised a hand to his face.

Something swished the air in front of him. "Don't move, Sam," a gravelly voice said, penetrating his confused haze. A second later, he felt two fingers gently touch the center of his forehead, and then he found himself blinking up at Cas. The angel didn't stay, though, and quickly sidestepped. Sam craned his neck to keep him in sight, and watched Cas reach out to Dean and heal him too.

Dean jerked back once the blood was gone, whipping his gaze around in alarm. "Cas?" he stammered.

"Yes. It's over. Abaddon is dead." Cas glanced behind him, and Sam followed the direction of his gaze until he spotted the demon lying on the floor, a burned out husk.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, as did Dean. "What about…?" He cast his gaze around for the jar containing Cas's soul, but didn't see it anywhere. His heart leaped into his throat.

Cas ducked his head. "I have my soul back," he said quietly.

Dean practically sagged in relief. "Finally."

Cas shifted his weight, still not looking up. "Sam, Dean, I'm sorry. I am ashamed of my behavior while…soulless."

Sam gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's okay, Cas. We know you weren't yourself."

Cas shook his head. "The things I said to you…" He briefly glanced up at Sam, only for his face to pinch in pain, and he looked away again.

Sam reached out to clasp his shoulder reassuringly. "I really do understand, Cas. I've been there, remember? And you weren't nearly as bad as me when I was soulless."

Dean snorted. "That's debatable."

Sam shot his brother a black glare.

Dean raised his palms in surrender, then clapped Cas on the back. "I am really glad you're back, man."

Cas gave them a hesitant half smile in return. "I am glad to be back as well."

Scuffing drew their attention to the back of the room where Gadreel was hauling a beaten and bloody Metatron out from behind a broken table. The angel dumped the Scribe unceremoniously on the floor, and straightened as he turned to them.

"Brother, are you well?"

Cas nodded. "Yes. I am…me, again."

Gadreel's stern expression eased. "I am glad." He glanced down at the unconscious Scribe. "I must return Metatron to Heaven's prison before he can wreak anymore destruction."

"Good idea," Dean grumbled.

Gadreel bent down to grasp a fistful of Metatron's shirt, and then the two disappeared with a puff of air. Sam spotted a block of rock on the floor, and went over to pick it up.

"We should probably put this somewhere safe, too," he said, holding up the Demon Tablet. His gaze drifted to Abaddon's corpse. "At least the last Knight of Hell is finally dead."

Dean let out a huff. "Finally. Of course, that means Crowley is the King of Hell again."

Sam sighed. "Better the enemy we know, I guess."

The three of them shuffled out of the brewery, each of them exhausted from that battle. The drive back to the bunker was as silent as the one before, and Sam could tell Cas was stewing in guilt over what he'd said and done while not in possession of his soul. It was one thing to know in your head that you weren't to blame, another to accept it. Sam was well familiar with that struggle.

Dean parked the Impala out front, and they headed into the bunker.

"I'm starving," Dean said, veering straight for the kitchen.

Cas hung back, and so Sam did the same, noticing the almost wistful look on Cas's face.

"So you can't enjoy food anymore, huh?" Sam cautiously mentioned.

"Unfortunately, no," Cas replied, and the fact that he sounded sad filled Sam with a complicated mesh of elation and grief. Cas roved his gaze around the study area slowly as though in serious rumination. Sam wished he knew what to say, but the truth was he had needed time to come to terms with things himself, and that's what Cas needed too.

They hadn't been back long when there was a heavy knock on the door. Frowning, Sam went to answer, and was startled to find Gadreel standing outside.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Sam asked.

"Yes. I merely wanted to assure you that Metatron is now locked away for good, and make sure you had returned safely."

Sam didn't quite know what to make of that. Gadreel had started off as an enemy, one Sam hated with an all-consuming rage, though the angel had proved himself a trustworthy ally since then. How strange their lives were.

Sam stepped back and gestured for Gadreel to come in. Dean came out from the kitchen and quirked a questioning brow at them.

"Please tell me Metatron didn't give you the slip."

"He did not," Gadreel replied. "He has been relegated to the deepest cell in Heaven's prison, and confined to a…" The angel paused. "I believe humans call it a straitjacket."

Sam's brows rose sharply. He suddenly wished Gadreel had a cell phone he could have taken a picture with. Maybe they should get him one, since he was an ally now.

Dean also looked taken aback. "Well, I suppose that's justice. Though you guys should consider a Hannibal Lecter muzzle to complete the ensemble."

Gadreel canted a confused look at him, but quickly shook it off and turned to Cas. "I have told the other angels how you were responsible for destroying the last Knight of Hell. You are a hero in Heaven, Castiel, and I will gladly take you back there so you can see how much our brothers and sisters esteem you."

Cas hesitated for a long moment, but then said carefully, "I- I would like to return to Heaven."

Sam's breath caught in his throat, and he flicked a worried look at his brother. Dean's jaw was visibly tight, but he held himself back from saying anything. Sam was disappointed as well…but he had to remember that Cas had a family up there, and the angel had put the Winchesters before it more often than not, at great sacrifice. If the angels were ready to welcome Cas back, then he deserved it.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey, Cas, don't be a stranger."

Cas furrowed his brow.

Dean rolled his eyes. "He means don't stay away too long. We're…we're still your friends." His voice started turning rough. "Don't forget about us."

Cas gave them both a knowing smile. "I would never forget you."

There was a telltale gleam of moisture in Dean's eyes, and he quickly looked away. Sam swallowed around a lump growing in his throat as Gadreel reached out to clasp Cas's shoulder, and then they were gone. Sam felt Cas's absence like a gaping hole in the bunker.

"Shoulda known," Dean said gruffly, and turned around to head back to the kitchen.

Sam watched his brother's retreating back with a pang of sympathy, and held onto hope that things weren't as final as Dean was always afraid they'd be.

* * *

Castiel was overwhelmed. To be greeted by smiling faces every way he turned, instead of hostility and hatred…it was everything he had desperately hoped for. His brothers and sisters no longer reviled him, no longer spat his name like a curse. No, it was praised. For re-opening Heaven, for restoring their wings, for his prowess in battle at defeating a Knight of Hell single-handedly. It all left Castiel with a very heady feeling.

But amidst all the adulation was an undercurrent of something more—adoration. And that, Castiel did not want.

The angels had asked him to be their new leader, had pledged their devout loyalty to his banner, much like when he had stood against Raphael. But that had been the beginning of his very, very long fall from grace. Castiel did not think his soul was a bad thing, a blight to be ashamed of or to hide, but he also didn't trust himself to lead Heaven in that capacity.

He tilted his head up to bask in the rays of sunlight, enjoying the autistic man's garden for what would likely be the last time.

"Castiel?" Gadreel called.

His mouth quirked ruefully. "I didn't expect anyone to think to look for me here," he said, turning to face his brother.

"I have looked everywhere else." Gadreel swept his gaze around the blooming flora and serenity of the personal heaven. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. But everyone is waiting for your command."

Castiel shook his head. "I'm no leader, Gadreel." Hadn't he said that before?

The other angel looked at him in disbelief. "You are, Castiel. You have always fought on the side of Heaven, for the good of mankind and angels. I do not understand how you cannot see that."

Castiel let out a soft snort. "I am also vain and proud, prone to weakness and going down the wrong path." He shook his head and fully turned to face his friend, gesturing vaguely. "No one out there would stand up to me should I teeter on the edge of making another mistake. They are offering blind devotion, and that will only end in disaster for everyone."

It was the Winchesters, Castiel thought wryly, who were capable of calling Castiel out. If only he had listened all those years ago.

Gadreel frowned, eyes narrowing shrewdly. "You want to return to Earth."

Castiel felt a weight pressing against his chest. He had been faced with this decision before, and it was no more easier now than it was then. But he knew what his heart yearned for.

"I think I can do more good down there," Castiel said. "Or, at least less harm."

"And what of Heaven?" Gadreel asked, looking as though he didn't fully understand. Most angels never did.

Castiel closed the distance between them and clasped his shoulder. " _You_ would make a fine leader, Gadreel. You and a handful of select others should form a council to govern Heaven." He hesitated. "I have a few suggestions, if that would help."

Gadreel studied him for a long moment, but finally dipped his head in reverence. "I admit I do not fully understand, but I respect your decision. And should you ever need anything, please do not hesitate to call."

Castiel smiled. "Thank you, brother."

Gadreel nodded, and with a sad smile, reached out to fly Castiel back to Earth. He dropped Castiel off outside the bunker, and Castiel's heart gave a flutter of trepidation. He wasn't sure of the reception he'd get; Dean always seemed reluctant to take Castiel back after he'd departed for a while. But if he belonged anywhere, it was here, and he had to try.

The Impala was parked out front, which was good, and Castiel made his way to the front door and knocked. He waited a few moments before the sound of echoing footsteps could be heard from within. Then the door grated open and there was Dean, blinking in surprise.

"Cas."

He shifted his weight nervously. "Hello, Dean."

The Winchester frowned. "You weren't gone very long."

Castiel swallowed. "Heaven…doesn't feel like home anymore. Could…could I come back?" He braced himself for Dean's response, but the hunter's expression merely softened, and then Dean smiled.

"Of course, Cas." He stepped back to allow entrance.

Castiel felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he crossed the threshold. It had been a long, arduous road, but he'd found his way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another happy ending. ^_^ My next fic is going to be a super painful one: a late season 6 AU. That's coming Friday. Also, I have three one shots lined up for the next three Wednesdays. Thanks to everyone who came along on this ride! Hope to see you again on the next one. ^_^


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